Zipper to go Outside and meet the souls of the newly dead. Three guys stepped through. Three angels, I’m assuming, but I couldn’t swear to it because they were wearing something like hazmat suits, though not the kind you buy here on Earth. The faces behind those masks were blurs of shifting light. The bagmen didn’t say a thing, just looked to Leo. He pointed to Smyler where he lay. The little horror was still wheezing and giggling quietly, but you could tell he was bleeding out. One of the bagmen produced something from out of thin air, or at least that’s how it looked, a billowing thing like a parachute made from pulsing light, and then shook it out over the horrible thing on the ground. At first it just lay on him like a sheet, twitching as he moved beneath it, then it began to shrink until Smyler was nothing but a glowing mummy, too tightly wrapped even to struggle.
“Step back, please,” one of the bagmen said, then he and his companions produced the strangest guns I’d ever seen, about the size of Mac-11s but with a shiny bell like a trumpet’s instead of a barrel. When they pulled the triggers, fire vomited out of the ends of their weapons and engulfed Smyler, flame so white and hot it might have come from the inside of a star. We all moved back rapidly—
way
back—but I still got my eyebrows singed.
In the scant seconds before the bundle on the ground shriveled into smoking ash, I swear I could still hear that awful laugh. Then it was over. The ashes glowed, and a few dark wisps blew up into the air like spiderwebs. The wind carried them away.
The bagmen didn’t say anything else, just reopened their sparkling gash in the air and disappeared. Leo took the four-edged blade, maybe as an ugly souvenir, maybe for some other reason I didn’t and don’t understand. Then we went home.
“I don’t get it,” said Clarence. He looked like I felt—queasy and depressed. “What . . . did they
do
?”
“To Smyler? I’m not exactly sure. Leo didn’t like to talk about it. But as far as I can tell they bagged him in something that rank-and-file angels like you and me don’t know about, something that kept his soul from returning to Hell when he died. Then they burned him alive.”
“That’s horrible!”
“You wouldn’t think that if you saw him . . . saw
it
. Whatever he was. But the thing that’s bothering me is that I saw him again last night. It was Smyler who stabbed Walter Sanders. Even though I’m pretty sure it was me he wanted.”
“But how could it have been? You said this demon’s soul was burned. With his body.”
“I don’t know. But I know one thing, and that’s what’s got me worried. No ordinary demon in Hell could have brought Smyler back. I mean, Leo said that thing was gone forever, and I could tell he believed it. I think this must be Eligor’s work.” I paused. Clarence knew about the Grand Duke of Hell and the monstrous
ghallu
he’d sent after me, although he didn’t know the truth about Caz, or how personal the quarrel between me and the grand duke had become. “Let’s just say Eligor doesn’t like me. Not at all. And I’m guessing only somebody as powerful as him could bring that nasty thing back from the dead a second time.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
I reached for the rest of my Bloody Mary, distaste overcome by other needs. I drained it and wiped my mouth. “Hell if I know, kid.”
five
hog caller
A CTUALLY, I had one idea, but I couldn’t do anything about it until midnight. To keep my head straight, I sat up listening to Thelonious Monk and his quartet playing at Carnegie Hall, over and over. It didn’t really work, because I kept wondering how perfect music like that could happen in such a fucked-up universe. When the clock finally struck twelve I turned down Coltrane mid-solo and called my favorite hog.
He’s only half a hog, really. My friend Fatback (which I never call him to his face) is a were-hog named George Noceda. During
“Step back, please,” one of the bagmen said, then he and his companions produced the strangest guns I’d ever seen, about the size of Mac-11s but with a shiny bell like a trumpet’s instead of a barrel. When they pulled the triggers, fire vomited out of the ends of their weapons and engulfed Smyler, flame so white and hot it might have come from the inside of a star. We all moved back rapidly—
way
back—but I still got my eyebrows singed.
In the scant seconds before the bundle on the ground shriveled into smoking ash, I swear I could still hear that awful laugh. Then it was over. The ashes glowed, and a few dark wisps blew up into the air like spiderwebs. The wind carried them away.
The bagmen didn’t say anything else, just reopened their sparkling gash in the air and disappeared. Leo took the four-edged blade, maybe as an ugly souvenir, maybe for some other reason I didn’t and don’t understand. Then we went home.
“I don’t get it,” said Clarence. He looked like I felt—queasy and depressed. “What . . . did they
do
?”
“To Smyler? I’m not exactly sure. Leo didn’t like to talk about it. But as far as I can tell they bagged him in something that rank-and-file angels like you and me don’t know about, something that kept his soul from returning to Hell when he died. Then they burned him alive.”
“That’s horrible!”
“You wouldn’t think that if you saw him . . . saw
it
. Whatever he was. But the thing that’s bothering me is that I saw him again last night. It was Smyler who stabbed Walter Sanders. Even though I’m pretty sure it was me he wanted.”
“But how could it have been? You said this demon’s soul was burned. With his body.”
“I don’t know. But I know one thing, and that’s what’s got me worried. No ordinary demon in Hell could have brought Smyler back. I mean, Leo said that thing was gone forever, and I could tell he believed it. I think this must be Eligor’s work.” I paused. Clarence knew about the Grand Duke of Hell and the monstrous
ghallu
he’d sent after me, although he didn’t know the truth about Caz, or how personal the quarrel between me and the grand duke had become. “Let’s just say Eligor doesn’t like me. Not at all. And I’m guessing only somebody as powerful as him could bring that nasty thing back from the dead a second time.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
I reached for the rest of my Bloody Mary, distaste overcome by other needs. I drained it and wiped my mouth. “Hell if I know, kid.”
five
hog caller
A CTUALLY, I had one idea, but I couldn’t do anything about it until midnight. To keep my head straight, I sat up listening to Thelonious Monk and his quartet playing at Carnegie Hall, over and over. It didn’t really work, because I kept wondering how perfect music like that could happen in such a fucked-up universe. When the clock finally struck twelve I turned down Coltrane mid-solo and called my favorite hog.
He’s only half a hog, really. My friend Fatback (which I never call him to his face) is a were-hog named George Noceda. During
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